


Jump

by HollyDB



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Reunions, Romance, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyDB/pseuds/HollyDB
Summary: Spike makes a deal to go back in time to stop Buffy from taking the dive off the Tower. Things don't go as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing like cutting it fine.
> 
> This is an idea I've had since my Buffy renaissance began earlier this year, and the [Elysian Fields Reunion Challenge](http://dark-solace.org/elysian/index.php) was the perfect excuse to write it. Paraphrasing Sam Seaborn from The West Wing, I'd like to forget the fact that I'm coming a little late to the party and embrace the fact that I showed up at all.
> 
> I know my updates on [Strawberry Fields](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156250/chapters/24894897) haven't been as frequent as I would've liked so it seems a little wacko to start a new story in the first place, but I do think this one will come a bit faster since it's a fresher idea and I don't plan on doing multi-scene chapters. That said, Strawberry Fields isn't abandoned (again). I'd hoped to get a chapter done over the weekend, but this one was more pressing.
> 
> Thanks to Behind Blue Eyes and swifthorse for betaing, and to OffYourBird for the awesome banner.

Every time his crypt door crashed open, a small part of him was certain it was her. After all, kicking down his door had been her thing for two years. Bust in, hips swaying, hair bouncy and flawless, eyes alight with irritation, stake, if not in hand, then certainly close by. With little exception, Buffy had been his most frequent visitor.

A part of him would always expect her.

Then that same part would crash headfirst into reality and shatter. In those moments, she died all over again.

He lost her all over again.

Spike pressed his eyes together, willing the witch to turn tail and hit the bloody road. He was in no mood to be sociable with anything except the bottle of whiskey resting on his lap.

“Spike.”

Fuck. Bloody pity vamps couldn’t play dead.

“What do you want?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“I… Gods, you reek. When was the last time you took a shower?”

He snorted. “If you’ve come to scold me about my hygiene, mum, you can go on and show yourself out.”

“She wouldn’t want this. You know she wouldn’t want this.”

There was that pang again—the one that came anytime he pictured Buffy, wondered what she might be thinking were she not six sodding feet under. Not that it ever went away, but it chose moments to scream at him—really scream—so that he thought he might dust simply from the awful ache in his chest.

“Don’t figure the Slayer much cared what became of yours truly,” he replied before bringing the bottle to his lips. “So if it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna drink until I pass out or I run outta sauce. Thanks ever so for dropping by, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

A still beat settled through the air, filled only by her heavy breaths and her racing heart. Well hell, if she was going to disrupt his evening plans, the least she could do was open a vein and make it worth his while. Or maybe then one of the Scoobies would do right by him and put him out of his misery.

“Spike.”

This was the no-nonsense tone. He grunted and finally peeked an eye open. But it hurt looking at her too—it hurt looking at all of them, even Harris. They were all extensions of her.

“What?” he barked at last. “Get on with it if you’re not gonna leave a man in peace.”

Willow crossed her arms, looking thoroughly unsympathetic. “I already said it. Just because you’re too stubborn to accept it doesn’t make it any less the truth.”

“The Slayer could give two pisses about me.”

It felt good to say—good to dwell on how much Buffy had hated him. Much easier than remembering the way she’d brushed her lips across his after his stint as Glory’s plaything. Or how she’d brought Dawn to him in the days after, knowing he’d die before he let the girl get hurt. How she’d snapped at her friends when they threatened to kick him out of that sodding Winnebago.

How she’d welcomed him into her home that night, the way she’d looked at him when he’d told her the way she made him feel. The disgust absent from her eyes.

Yeah, he didn’t want to remember that. Any of it.

“What about Dawn?” Willow asked, her voice a note softer but no less firm.

And there it was. The only hand that could beat any of his. Spike winced and looked away, sucking down another hard drag of whiskey. Yeah, he was doing a shit job of fulfilling his promise to her, but the way he figured it, the Bit was all right. The witches had all but moved into the Summers’ residence in the week that had passed since Buffy had taken her dive off the Tower, and smart money was on the bet they’d make it official by the weekend. Dawn had all sorts of muscle around her and no deranged hellgod looking to make her a pincushion. If the day came when that wasn’t true anymore, he’d be between her and whatever big nasty wanted to make her a snack.

“What about her?” he said at last, fixing his gaze on a point on the far wall.

“Are you serious? Spike, she just lost her sister.”

“Do I look like I need to be reminded?”

“And she had zero time to process losing her mom,” Willow continued heatedly. “She needs people she trusts around her. That means you too.”

He snorted. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned that I’m on that list in the first place?”

“No, because Buffy wasn’t.”

Though he thought it a million times a day, it still hurt to hear her name spoken aloud.

“And hell, Spike, if not for Dawn—”

“You know bloody well I’ll do anything for Dawn,” he replied, whipping his head back to look at her, his eyes narrowing. “Ever figure she might just need some sodding time without people hoverin’ about? What good’s my being around gonna do, exactly? I show up and suddenly big sis isn’t in a sodding hole?”

Something softened in Willow’s expression. “Spike—”

“I can hardly take care of myself right now—I’m in no state to try and comfort a teenager.”

“Well, you need to get it together.”

He blinked at her, irritation racing with incredulity. Then he huffed a laugh and gave his head a shake. “Yeah, thanks. Sorry if I can’t bounce back like the rest of you.”

“What in the world makes you think there’s been any bouncing of any kind?”

“The fact that you’re standing here cold sober, for one.”

“Well, what do you expect us to do, exactly?” A tremor entered Willow’s voice—one that plainly informed she was close to losing her control. Which, all things considered, could be very bad for him.

Or very good, depending on whether or not he really wanted to taste dust. At the moment he couldn’t tell.

“The world didn’t stop turning because Buffy’s not here,” she continued, that tremor becoming more pronounced. “Sooner or later, the local demon population is gonna figure out the Hellmouth is a slayer short. Buffy’s been gone before, so it hasn’t happened yet, but there’s already been more trouble than is usual for this time of year. You know the Bronze was hit a few days ago by a bunch of Glory loyalists. Twelve people died.”

That wasn’t anything new. The Bronze was constantly under construction due to the local creepy crawlies. And forgive him, but Spike couldn’t be bothered to care that anyone had snuffed it. Wasn’t like the sodding town had deserved her in the first place.

“And?” he drawled.

“And this is exactly what I’m talking about. The Hellmouth didn’t stop being under constant threat of whatever Big Bad is out there to kick-start the next apocalypse. Buffy died so we wouldn’t and I’m not interested in making that sacrifice all for nothing.”

Those words hit him square in the chest. “What is it you want me to do, then?”

Willow released a long breath, her shoulders slumping. “We have a couple things in mind. Nothing in stone just yet, but we’re getting there. And we know we’re going to need your help. So we’re fixing up the Buffybot—”

“You’re what?”

“That Warren guy might be a sicko, but he builds a decent robot.”

“You think I want that thing?” Spike snapped, hot anger bubbling inside, and fuck, that felt good. Too good. Anger was familiar, natural. Infinitely superior over the vacuous nothing that his life had been the last week. And the thought, the bloody notion that the Scoobies figured they could persuade him with it made his fangs ache.

The Buffybot had been a mistake from the beginning—a piss poor substitute for the thing he wanted. A nicotine patch solution to an addiction he’d stopped wanting to cure. That anyone would dangle a toy bearing the face of the woman he loved after he’d seen her lying broken and still on the ground was enough to make him want to say sod it and attack until the chip fried his brain permanently. At least he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that he’d failed her anymore.

The only thing stopping him from snapping at the witch and putting that plan into motion was the bewildered look on her face. “None of us want it,” Willow said slowly, cautiously. “But it’s the best solution. For now. Until we think of something else.”

“So that’s the big plan, is it? Keep bribing me into doing your bidding and hope I don’t just—”

“What are you talking about?”

He gestured to her. “That bloody bot is… It’s not her. It never was.”

The confused look didn’t go anywhere. “I…know that.”

“And just the thought of touching it now…” He winced and felt a familiar sting prick his eyes, and didn’t know whether roaring or screaming was the better option. “Just leave me to do what the dead do in tombs, all right?”

“Spike…we’re not giving you the bot, if that’s what you think.” Willow’s tone had gone from bemused to somewhat incredulous with a hint of disgust. “We’re fixing it up so it can go on patrols.”

He snorted. That plan was even zanier than the other. “You’re off your bird.”

“It was good enough to fool Glory, so we think it’ll help stave off rumors that Buffy’s dead.”

“Rumors bein’ the truth, you mean. Nasty secret to keep goin’. Sooner or later, the sodding bot’s gonna get into a scrape and lose a wire or two.”

“Yeah,” Willow agreed, “but this will at least buy us time to figure something else out.”

“What is there to figure out?” Spike demanded. “Nothing can bring her back. And nothing can defend good ole Sunnyhell like the Slayer. Just as well to let the place burn.”

Something strange flickered across Willow’s face—something he wasn’t sure he would have caught had he not been looking at her. Like she had something in her back pocket, some grand solution to the problem at hand, but she wasn’t sharing and he didn’t much care to hear it anyway.

“If you loved Buffy at all,” she said after a considerable pause, “this is the way you show it. This is the way you keep her alive.”

He barked a laugh. “Do you pulsers really fall for that rot?”

Willow sighed again, but this time, the sound carried a finality to it—one that smarted more than he wanted to admit. Because a part of him really wanted her to give him a reason, a purpose.

Anything.

“If you change your mind,” Willow said, heading toward the door, “you know where to find us.”

Spike turned away, words lodged in his throat. He waited until the sound of his crypt being sealed shut clamored through the air before letting himself move.

Not that moving was in his best interest. The world seemed to tilt every time he blinked. Fucking globe didn’t have the common decency to stop turning, as Willow had so keenly pointed out. Everywhere he looked, it was business as bloody usual, and fuck if that wasn’t what hurt the most. That the sun did continue to come up, that people who had no clue how close they’d come to the end of the world got to live their lives as though nothing had changed.

Living felt like an insult—why should a dead man live but the most alive person he’d ever known be gone?—but it was all he had left. Because when it came to brass tacks, and as much as he hated to admit it, the witch was on the money. He’d do no good to Buffy’s memory as a drunk. It might feel better in the moment, but there wasn’t enough booze in the world to completely drown the pain. After all, it hadn’t worked much when Dru had tossed him out and this pain was a breed apart from that. That had been a paper-cut—this was emotional disembowelment. And it kept getting worse.

Like today with the Buffybot. The thing should be rotting in a scrap yard; the fact that it could be pieced together again after falling off Humpty Dumpty’s wall when the real thing was gone from this world forever was its own kind of sick.

But maybe it was what he deserved—maybe this was his penance for failing her. Staying behind when she couldn’t, fighting the good fight in her place. While Buffy might not have cared two figs for him in life, she had trusted him in some way. Trusted him with the things that mattered, at least, and wallowing at the bottom of a bottle wasn’t the best way to honor that. To keep deserving it, if he ever had to begin with.

This was typically the point in his reflections when he’d drink until the deep thoughts became fuzzy and intangible again. Spike eyed the neck of the bottle still in his hands and considered downing it in one terrific gulp, but a voice—one sounding so much like hers it made his heart want to explode—convinced him to set it aside.

He hadn’t saved Buffy, but the reason Buffy had died was still alive. And knowing the littlest Summers, she wouldn’t keep her nose out of trouble for long.

He hadn’t pulled through when it mattered, but he would every night thereafter.

If he could figure out a way to live without feeling the hole she’d left behind with every sodding move he made. Liquor wasn’t going to cut it, fun as it was. He needed something stronger. More permanent.

Spike eyed the bottle again, sighed, and scooped it up.

Starting tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Spike didn’t need a reflection to know he looked like hell. He didn’t much need the sideways looks the Sunnyhell locals kept shooting in his direction, either. He felt the way his shirt hung off his body as well as the sag in his jeans, and at most he’d only skipped two or three days’ worth of meals. He’d expected his stomach to start making rumbles, but the thought of eating only made the gnawing pain in his gut worse.

Still, today was a new day, and all that. And if he was going to do right by Buffy—the  _memory_ of Buffy—he needed to get his head on straight.

“Spike!” Willy called as he pushed the bar door open. “Long time.”

A handful of demons shot him the usual round of glares, but he ignored them. Figured if any of the tossers wanted to make good on their threat of tearing his head off, they were welcome to try.

Spike didn’t say anything, just stalked to the bartender. He didn’t bother to sit; he wasn’t staying.

“What can I get for you? You’ll forgive me if you have to remind me of your usual.”

“Need something a bit stronger than what you keep on tap, mate.”

Willy perked his eyebrows and leaned forward, fidgeting with the same mixture of nervous energy and false bravado that had more or less become his trademark. But like any other lowlife, he had a tendency to become a lot braver when a large payload was on the line.

“What do you have in mind, buddy?”

“What do you got that’ll dull pain?”

Willy blinked at him. “Well…that doesn’t really narrow it down.”

“Need my faculties about me so I can’t get good and sloshed,” Spike continued. “Booze won’t cut it.”

“So…this pain… Is it existential? Physical? Help me out here.”

His patience was already threadbare and this conversation would consume whatever was left of it. Spike growled, dropping his fangs. “You wanna taste?”

Willy stepped back, his hands going up. “No need for that, friend. Just gotta know which way to point you. You and Drusilla break up again?”

Spike balked. The question was so unexpected he nearly laughed. “Have to be back together to split,” he replied, “but…say I had tossed the bitch out and was feelin’ sore about it. What would you recommend that’s not available in a bottle?”

Willy’s brow creased, his eyes widening. “Really? Jeez, man, what happened?”

“Just. Talk.”

There was a brief pause. “I…I don’t think I can help you. The stuff here’s strong but not  _black,_ if you catch my meaning. Don’t need that kinda trouble in my bar.”

Spike expelled a deep breath and rolled his head back. “Of course.”

“But if you have some cash to spare, I think I can point you in the right direction.”

He looked back at the wormy bartender, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah? Talk.”

Willy made a show of looking around to ensure their conversation wasn’t of interest to others before leaning in, his mouth twitching. “You hear of a warlock named Rack?”

The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place it. And there was a good chance he was still drunk from the night before. Spike shook his head. “Say I haven’t.”

“He deals with the dark stuff. Real dark stuff, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah, got it. How does that help me?”

“Well, if you wanna cut off whatever it is you’re feeling, the kinda fix you need’s gonna be on the darker side, my friend. Removing any emotion takes a helluva lot of juice and if it’s not done right, it can leave you well and truly screwed.” Willy rocked back on his heels, looking very pleased with himself. “But if there’s a way to do it, Rack’ll be able to set you up.”

He knew this was one of those situations he should consider for more than a handful of seconds, given his impulse control issues. But at the moment, he also had something bordering on a death-wish, which made the part of him that should care flip him the bird. Spike nodded and leaned forward. “How do I find this bloke, then?”

“He changes location to keep off the fuzz’s radar.”

“The fuzz?”

Willy rolled his eyes. “That’d be the Slayer and pals.”

That sentiment was so familiar it had the impact of a physical blow to the chest. For one awful second, Spike was afraid he’d start bawling. The sting was back behind his eyes, and parts of him that were already raw from crying tensed for another round. Somehow, though, he managed to bite back instinct and seize control again.

“Yeah?” Spike asked, his voice rougher than he would have liked. But he didn’t sob, so that was progress.

“Little Miss Buff gets word that a powerhouse like Rack is in town and no one gets to have fun anymore.”

The urge came again, but was easier to fight this time. Instead of focusing on not losing his shit, he imagined smashing Willy nose-first into the bar. That helped.

And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t known to expect this, but it was still bloody hard to listen to anyone refer to Buffy in the present tense. Far as anyone outside him and the Scoobies knew, the Slayer was alive and well. Never mind that the world was wrong—all of it. The sodding air tasted different than it had this time last week. That anyone could miss it was beyond him.

Willy was staring at him, a twist of confusion and fear in his eyes. “Did I say somethin’?”

Spike shook his head, managed to twist his mouth into a mockery of a grin, and puffed out a sound that no one in their right mind would mistake for a laugh. “Slayer likes to ruin everyone’s fun, doesn’t she?” he said. “So if the magical sod sets up shop in a different place each night, how’s he get any business?”

There was another pause as Willy seemed to consider him, and for a moment, Spike wondered if the little git was more perceptive than he’d thought. But the stupid-cocky look returned the next instant, the showman’s smile back in place. “You just gotta know to feel for it,” Willy said. “Be a witch or a demon yourself. Take a stroll and you’ll find it in no time.”

“Right.” Sounded simple enough.

“Right.” Willy nodded. “So, what’s this information worth?”

Spike blinked. “Huh?”

“Valuable intel, my friend. That don’t come for free, if you catch my drift.”

It took a moment for the words to make sense, but when they did, Spike found himself laughing in earnest for the first time since seeing Buffy’s body. “The intel you already gave me, you mean. Yeah, woulda been worth a penny, but I got what I need, didn’t I?”

Willy frowned, then cursed and kicked the back of the bar. “Dammit. I know better than that.”

“Clearly.”

“Not even for old time’s sake?”

Spike snickered and shook his head, backing up a step. “Can’t say the old times were much to write home about in the first place,” he replied. “But thanks ever so. You were a real help. Now I’m off to find me a warlock.”

And, he thought as he turned and headed out the door, hopefully a permanent fix.

Otherwise, mourning Buffy might just kill him.

***

Finding Rack’s proved as simple as Willy had indicated. Once Spike had started to pay attention, the bloke’s power signature was bloody hard to ignore. A few screwy turns and an unsettling trip through a solid brick wall later and he found himself in a waiting room filled with a load of pathetic tossers who kept gazing at the door with a mixture of loathing and desperation. Not that he figured he was in much of a place to judge these folks, mind. The prospect of not feeling this awful grief anymore had him as antsy as anyone else.

At long last, that blessed door swung open and a tall, lanky bloke with scraggly shoulder-length hair stepped across the threshold. He looked an oddly familiar, but Spike couldn’t figure out where he knew him. But his presence meant something, because all mumbling in the room stopped.

The new bloke surveyed the crowd of hopeful bastards until his gaze landed on Spike. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You.”

Spike blinked. “Got a problem, mate?”

“Join me now.”

A disgruntled ripple ran through the room, and a horned Braxus demon leapt to its feet. “I’ve been waiting eleven hours!”

The scraggly git, whom Spike could only assume was Rack, gave the demon a withering look, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The power rippling off him did what words could not. Instead, he turned back to Spike and offered a short nod. “Join me.”

Spike rose to his feet. For the first time in what felt like an age, he was nervous. And he didn’t like it. Spells and that rot had never been his thing—he’d seen what that kind of power could do in the wrong hands and, save for a few times at Dru’s behest, he’d given the whole magical community a wide berth. He had no desire to have a soul stuffed inside him and the darker stuff—the stuff Willy had referred to—always came at a steep price.

Except at the present he didn’t have much in the way to lose. Buffy was gone. The worst had already happened. Whatever payment Rack wanted would be fine with him, consequences be damned.

Still, the fact that the bloke had picked him out of a room full of magic-doers had him on edge. Nothing good could come from being singled out.

A few seconds later, Spike found himself in an empty room much like the one he’d left. Rack stood in the middle, his back to him. The second the door behind him closed, the grumbling voices in the waiting room went stone silent.

Spike released a deep breath.

“I don’t get vampires often.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. “Got your name from—”

“I don’t care how you got my name.” Rack turned to face him. Absurdly, it occurred to Spike why the fella looked familiar. He had a likeness to Willem Dafoe, if Willem Dafoe was fond of crystal meth. “I know why you’re here.”

Well, bugger.

“I—”

“The Slayer is dead.”

Spike inhaled sharply and took a step back. Despite whatever else, this was not information a man like Rack should have. “No, she’s not,” he replied, though his throat felt tight. “Bloody Slayer’s right as rain. Just got through kickin’ me across town. It’s what she does on Tuesdays.”

“Lie.” Rack’s expression didn’t change. “The Slayer is dead. I know this. An event like that can’t happen without my feeling it.”

He swallowed, grateful for his lack of a heartbeat. Sodding thing would have leapt right out of his throat had it still been working properly. “Who else knows?”

“It is in my interest to ensure this remains secret,” Rack said. “But her absence will become noticeable soon. You can’t expect to keep the Slayer’s death quiet for long.”

Spike curled his hands into fists, torn between asking more and making a break for the door. He hadn’t known what to expect in coming here, but it hadn’t been this and he didn’t like it. This wasn’t a bloke he wanted in his head, or in any other parts of his body.

“Right you are,” he said, taking a step back. “Word’ll get out sooner or later. I’ll just—”

“Stay.”

“Think not. Took a bit of a wrong turn coming here.”

“You came to cure your grief.”

Was this wanker a mind reader? All the more reason to bolt. “Well, I think I’ve decided to keep it after all. It’s grown on me.”

“I can cure your grief,” Rack said calmly as though he hadn’t spoken. “But there is a better solution. One that would benefit both of us…equally.”

Yeah, that couldn’t be good. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll—”

“You can stop it. Her death.”

Every molecule in his body froze. “What?”

“I will help you prevent the Slayer’s death.”

“But she—”

“I will send you back,” Rack said. “Back to the moment you see in your dreams. You can stop it from happening. You can stop her before she jumps.”

Spike stared at him, barely daring to hope. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Fuck, could it?

A smile tugged at the corners of the warlock's mouth. The sort of smile reserved for laying out the winning hand. “You can prevent her from dying.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to swifthorse and Behind Blue Eyes.
> 
> I am also nearly done with the next chapter of Strawberry Fields. I promise more of that is coming.

He couldn’t have heard right. Or maybe he’d finally gone all toys-in-the-attic and was imagining things. Spike swallowed, not daring to drag his gaze off Rack, and took a fortifying breath. 

“Say that again?” 

The warlock’s mouth twitched. “It is very simple,” he replied, closing a space between them. “Time is the product of choice and action. It is the human world that considers it a line, when reality is, of course, much more interesting. I can bend time around you. Place you where you wish to be. The rest is up to you.” 

Spike stared a moment longer, blinked. The scene before him remained unchanged. It sounded almost simple—too bloody simple. Too bloody good to be true, at that. As though all it took to get him back to the Tower before the Doc could slice Dawn open was a bit of fancy footwork. Spike had never heard of someone who could manipulate time beyond basic theory, plus a load of films that warned against doing anything to muck with the way things happened. 

But he could almost see it. Fuck, he _could_ see it. All of it. He had over and over again since she’d jumped. Thought about how he should have gone straight up the Tower the first chance he got. If he had… 

“Why?” 

It was a good question—a needed question. If Spike were to consider the offer at all, he needed to know the answer. 

He needed to know right now if there was anything out there that could be worse than living in a world without Buffy. He figured the answer was no, but he wasn’t an idiot. Black magic always had a price. 

Rack blinked but the odd smile on his face didn’t change. “Why?” he repeated calmly. 

“Man like you offerin’ to put the Slayer back in action. Girl can’t be good for business.” 

At that, Rack looked downright amused, which in itself was rather chilling. “In life, Buffy Summers never once heard my name,” he said. “ _Her_ name, however, became the thing of legend. I have lived many lives, seen many slayers come and go. But none that came before were like her.” 

That pang that he had grown so accustomed to struck again, only it wasn’t quite as sharp this time, dulled with possibility. With light. With hope. “Yeah,” Spike agreed. “Can say the same. Doesn’t figure, though, that you’d want her back.” 

“Anymore than it does that a vampire, particularly one who has made a name for himself by killing slayers, would mourn her death.” 

At that, he straightened his spine. “Reckon you know why, don’t you?” 

“Of course.” Rack spread his hands, strings of static red dancing between his fingers. “Others feared her. Many wished to end her. The curious life of a slayer—the longer they live, the more difficult they become to kill, and the more creatures such as you try. But this slayer was not killed by a creature. She was slain by the only being that had the power to do so—herself.” 

The thought hit him square in the chest with all the subtlety of a two by four. Spike tightened his hands into fists. “That’s all well and good, but you still haven’t told me why you have a yen for makin’ sure she stays alive.” 

Rack tilted his head and lifted his shoulders almost indiscernibly. “The Hellmouth draws those who are hungry for power. The Slayer draws those who are hungry for fame. Those are the creatures that sit in my room, waiting to let me inside their heads just for a taste of what I can give them. They feed me…and she, simply by existing, brings them to my door. She is a beacon to those who wish to be more than they are. They leave here believing they can destroy her. They come back when they realize they cannot.” 

Spike blinked. “That’s it? You want the Slayer alive and kickin’ because she’s…good for business?” 

Rack grinned, and it wasn’t a nice grin. “An overly simple way of looking at it. There will be other slayers eventually, perhaps even one to rival Buffy Summers. But I do not wish to wait to see which future unfolds. You know that another slayer was not called when she died.” 

He swallowed again, the motion almost painful. “’Cause of the other one, right?” 

Another nod. 

Yeah. Spike had already figured as much. With the other bird rotting away behind a jail cell, the Slayer line more or less stopped moving. Buffy had passed the mantle when she’d died the first time; it hadn’t been hers to give up again. And given that the most dangerous person in the prison that housed Faith was Faith herself, it figured she wasn’t due to die anytime soon. 

The logic was there—he could see it, understand it, even if he didn’t quite believe it. Buffy had been a bloody demon magnet, both for blokes like him and tourists who wanted to get a look at the Slayer in action. Hell, Dracula had made the trip just because of her. The Hellmouth enticed demons to come, but Buffy was what made them want to stay. And a bloke like Rack, who got his jollies from other magical folk, would have an easy time of finding people to keep them full. 

But this was too simple. 

_Do I care?_

That was the real question. With nothing but the inside of a bottle to live for, with this horrible pain consuming his every waking thought, with the image of her broken, lifeless body seared against the inside of his eyes, what did the cost matter, really? If he could go back and do it properly, the past few days wouldn’t exist. None of this would. Point of fact, Rack himself wouldn’t exist, either—at least, not this version of Rack. The one who knew him too well for his liking. It would be a big bloody do over. Life would go on as normal. 

With Buffy in it. 

And wasn’t that the best way he could do right by his promise to her? Nothing better to protect Dawn than big sis, after all. 

“Say I want to,” Spike said, his voice rough. “What happens next?” 

Rack just smiled.

***

It seemed like it should have been harder than it was. That time itself should have been more difficult to manipulate than sprinkling some herbs and chanting some mystical rot. Seemed too bloody easy for anyone, especially a man like Rack. That the power itself was literally at the bloke’s fingertips left him uneasy.

Yet that was what happened. Rack pressed his hands together and the world sparked to life between them. Between his palms was a pulsing sphere of color without shape or reason, growing by the second until Spike could see the things inside it. Cars stacked on cars, burned out streetlights. The lumbering silhouette of the Tower against a darkened sky, the ground and everything else littered with those scurrying goblins and— 

Fuck. It was her. Buffy was in the strange ball between Rack’s hands, and she was smashing Glory to bits with the troll’s hammer. 

The pain he had grown so accustomed to blossomed into something that was almost worse, because he knew the crash would kill him if he didn’t make it out in time. 

“This is where you wish to be,” Rack said, his voice distant. 

Spike forced his throat to work, almost convinced for a moment that his heart had started pounding. His head definitely was. “Yeah,” he said. “What do I do? Just jump in?” 

“You must first agree to my terms.” 

He blinked. “Terms?” 

“I do not work for free, vampire. You should know this.” 

“Yeah, well, thought your payment was in getting back your bloody cash cow.” A paradox that still didn’t make much sense, despite how it had been explained, but Spike didn’t much care about the particulars behind Rack’s reasoning. Now that he’d seen her—now that he knew it was possible and not just lip service—there wasn’t much he wouldn’t give to leap into that world. The one with her still in it. 

“Accurate but inadequate. The Slayer’s continued existence is _why_ I am willing to help. It is not the price.” 

Spike dragged his gaze away from the sphere. Even if time was relative, he could feel the countdown to the Doc’s grand entrance and he was determined to get there first. “What’s the price, then?” 

“Simple. A human soul.” 

The words seemed to echo. “A soul.” 

“One pure soul.” 

“Pure?” He barked a laugh. “Where you figure I can find one, then? Have you seen the—” 

“An untouched soul is not so difficult to come by,” Rack said, unfazed. “I know you know a witch who has bartered with souls in the past.” 

“Yeah. Feature that conversation goin’ over really well.” 

“I will permit you time to collect.” The warlock spoke as though Spike had not. “I will allow you to save your slayer. Call it good faith. But should you fail to provide payment, all this…” He spread his hands, and the image of Buffy in mid-hammer swing faded like so much smoke. “Will cease to be.” 

This was one of those things he needed to think about. _Should_ think about. Bugger that—he should sock the guy and head back to Willy’s, impossible quest be damned. A part of him knew this, accepted it. Knew that it was counter to everything he believed to be standing here at all, to be flirting with the idea of engaging in black magic. While he had spent most of his existence going out of his way to avoid it, the few times he had mucked with it had taught him well and good that whatever sat on the other side wasn’t worth the price. He’d be lucky not to end up dust. 

And a soul wasn’t something one could just barter. A soul had the power to make or break demons. He ought to know. And giving one to Rack— _any_ soul to Rack—was essentially damning it to a fate worse than being fried in Hell. Even if he could get his hands on one, he’d be trading much more than a life for a life. 

He needed to think about it. He did. 

Except there was nothing to think about. He knew what his answer would be tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. So long as what waited on the other side was Buffy—Buffy as she’d been, so full of life she could almost make his dead lungs work—he’d think any price worth it. 

Fuck, if all went well, she’d never be any the wiser. She’d never have to know this bleak reality had ever existed. 

All he had to do was find a soul. A pure one, and preferably one the world wouldn’t miss. 

The answer came to him from nowhere—beautiful and simplistic. 

“Any soul, so long as it’s pure?” 

Rack nodded, and for the first time, Spike saw the greed in his eyes. It should have made him pause and reconsider, but it didn’t. 

His mind was made up. 

“Reckon I can make that work,” he said. 

“I thought you might.” Rack gestured for him to come forward, then lifted his hands again. The sphere reappeared just as the hammer found its victim. No time had passed there. “When the time in your past”—he nodded at the sphere—“matches the time in our present, your payment is due. If you do not provide it by midnight on this date, time will continue as though our deal was not made.” 

Spike hesitated but nodded, his mind spinning. Right. Eight days ago, Buffy jumped. So he had eight days from the moment he saved her to pay up. 

As powerful as Willow was now, she could summon up a soul in a blink. Then the world would be right again. 

It was almost too easy. 

“At the count of three, jump.” The warlock spread his arms farther apart so the scene before him transformed from a sphere into a gaping maw—one large enough to climb into. The images on the other side were so clear he could almost smell them. Taste them. 

_Gonna do it right this time, Slayer. I bloody swear it._

“One…” 

And he would. He’d be quicker. More clever. 

He’d stop the Doc. He’d keep Dawn from bleeding. 

“Two.” 

He’d stop Buffy from taking that dive. Nothing mattered but that. 

He’d keep her alive.

“Three.” 

Spike jumped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Grovel time.
> 
> I truly didn’t mean to leave this for two months. Then the holidays happened, and I was racing against the clock to complete my next novel (a modern retelling of Pride & Prejudice, which, incidentally, is [available now for preorder](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B079F3BKX2/ref=nav_timeline_asin?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1)). January became revision month. I had intended on cracking out several chapters of this and Strawberry Fields, but with three completed books needing revisions and my author clients needing edits, I was only able to work on this in bits and pieces.
> 
> I can’t say that won’t happen again, but I can promise both works will be updated as soon as I can get to them.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to swifthorse and Behind Blue Eyes for betaing. And to everyone who’s left me a review over the past few weeks, I will answer them as soon as I can. I appreciate the time and effort you put into leaving those more than I can say.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I took a line or four from _The Gift_. Also, there’s a tiny easter-egg for any _Hamilton_ fans out there. Also, I own nothing in this fic but the plot idea, and I barely even own that because it wouldn’t have happened if not for Joss.

He remembered the way the air had smelled that night, and it hit him now like some sort of waking nightmare. Spike dragged in a lungful, every nerve in his body firing with life. But he didn't have the luxury of sightseeing. Each second he spent here was one she didn't have.

He had to _move._

Spike scrambled to his feet, looking to the lumbering structure that was the Tower. He caught a glimpse of platinum in a blur of movement and nearly tripped before he realized he was seeing himself.

Well, this was off to a swimming start. He hadn't given much thought to his younger self. Or any thought. It wasn't a normal thought to have, after all. How to convince yourself not to stake you on sight.

For now, at least, he had the advantage. He knew exactly every step his former self was going to take. And neither he nor the Doc would see this coming.

"Spike!"

He whirled around and met Willow's fiery glare.

"Stop standing around and _get moving_! Buffy needs you!"

He snarled in disgust and broke into a run, angry both with himself for wasting time and Willow for thinking he didn't know that…painfully. But seeing as he couldn’t very well explain any of this, he turned and focused ahead.

Scaling the Tower was in every sense retracing the steps of his personal hell. In most things, memory distorted reality, but not this time. He knew every bloody turn. Every crack. Every sodding wobble. The past week had been filled with nothing but liquor and regret, and in the heat of that, reliving this journey again and again until it chased him into his dreams.

Then a voice broke the air—his voice. It was time. Now or bloody never.

“You don’t go near the girl, Doc.”

And _he_ answered. That filthy maggot. Spike snarled again, the bones in his face shifting.

_This is your shot, mate. Don’t throw it away._

“I don't smell a soul anywhere on you. Why do you even care?”

“I made a promise to a lady.”

Spike reached the top with a burst of triumph, and somehow managed to keep his idiot legs from going a step farther. It occurred to him in a flash of brilliance that, had he seen himself charging down the landing, he’d have thought he’d lost his bloody marbles and things might have gone even worse.

“Well, I'll send the lady your regrets.”

_Could throw the Doc off, too. Catch ’em all unawares._

Spike gripped the railing, forcing himself to stay in place. He knew the way it would go if he didn’t move now—he couldn’t vouch for the other. And since he didn’t much figure there was gonna be another shot for a do-over, he wasn’t taking any bloody chances. He needed to surprise the Doc. Couldn’t right do that if his past self began blubbering and gave the game away.

So he waited as the Doc made his attack. As the Tower whined and swayed under the weight of their scuffle. Waited for the motion to end—for the Doc to grab him and haul him over the side.

_Now._

Spike launched forward, legs finding the landing in that horrible second that had punctuated each nightmare. The second he’d looked at Dawn, and she’d looked back, and they’d known it was over.

Except that’s not what happened this time.

Because Dawn saw him. And in the flash before the Doc hurled past-Spike over the side, the other version of himself saw him too.

Spike gave his head a shake and pressed onward. The instant the Doc let go, he exploded into motion. The platform thundered under the stomps of his feet, and then the git was turning. Spike didn’t have much time to savor the moment, but he couldn’t deny the rush of pure pleasure at the shock that crossed the Doc’s face the instant their eyes made contact.

“What—”

That was it. That breath of a word was what did the Doc in. Spike snarled, threw all his strength into his arms, and shoved. The Doc wobbled backward, confusion melting into determination, but it was too late. Spike shoved again and watched, feeling like his heart might jumpstart as the git bent backward over the railing.

“Not this time,” he spat through fangs.

There was a long beat during which everything seemed to slow down. The weak light casting a glow on the Doc’s face, mapping his transition from shocked to outraged to determined. And in that second, the doors in Spike’s mind aligned, and he saw what was going to happen next.

When the Doc’s slimy tongue shot out of his mouth like a bloody lasso, he was ready. A roar tickling the back of his throat, Spike closed his fangs around flailing organ and chomped like he had never chomped before.

And then it was over. A horrible, mangled scream rent through the air as tissue stretched and tore, and the Doc went full Hans Gruber, flailing arms, wide eyed disbelief as gravity pulled him down to a fate too bloody good for him. Spike kept his fangs locked on the slip of tongue until the muscle gave and split, blood spurting in a bubbly arc. It wasn’t until he saw dust swirling around the Doc’s body that he spat the slimy thing out.

It was a slow crawl back to the present from there. Spike panting, dragging his gaze to Dawn, who was looking at him through doubtful, tear-filled eyes. It didn’t hit him until she said his name that it was over— _it was over—_ and he’d done it.

He’d bloody _done it._

“Spike?”

He held her eyes for a moment longer, filling his lungs with more of that familiar-smelling air, then cracked a small grin. “Got you now, Bit,” he said, stumbling forward on legs that wanted to collapse. “It’s all over.”

“H-how…how did you get up here again? I saw him throw you over.”

She’d seen more than that—she’d seen him in two places at once. But he wagered he’d be rationalizing if he were in her position, too.

“Bit of a story, that.” He forced himself nearer and began working at the ties holding her in place. “Glad to fill you in when we’re both on solid ground, yeah?”

The uncertainty didn’t leave Dawn’s face, and he couldn’t blame her. Clever girl, his Nibblet. He puffed out another breath, seizing hold of her shoulder to keep her from wobbling the wrong way when she was finally free. It wasn’t until she took her first step toward the makeshift staircase that she seemed to realize the worst was behind her and dissolved into messy, sloppy tears.

“I’m so sorry, Spike.”

His heart gave a lurch. “Stop that. You got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I thought… I thought…”

“It’s all over now.”

Maybe if he said that enough, he’d believe it, but with his veins pumping full of adrenaline, it was a mite difficult to convince his brain. Every step they took closer to terra firma, he was on edge, waiting for something to leap out of the shadows. His logical brain knew what came next, but this was a different script and he was now on the same page as everyone else.

_And Buffy._

Every step he took got him closer to seeing the woman he loved. And he wasn’t sure if he could keep from making an absolute prat out of himself.

The second his feet met the ground, something inside him cemented. No sooner had he looked around did Willow all but tackle Dawn into a hard hug. Xander was quick behind her, and Anya and Tara.

The warning burn of sunrise itched along his skin. In the other world, these were Buffy’s final seconds.

Spike’s gaze fell to the beam where Buffy’s body had lain the last time. It was empty.

This was about the time he typically woke up.

“How did you get back up there so quickly?”

He jerked his head up and met Giles’s eyes. “Have to see it to believe it, mate,” he replied before looking in the direction where he knew his other self had crashed. It would be a couple minutes before he woke.

Then her scent hit his nose and whatever it was that had kept him standing on two bloody legs began to give. Spike inhaled, pulling that scent inside him, warming places that had been left hollow and cold. He swallowed and turned just as she burst into view, looking worn and determined, terrified but focused. And alive. So alive he had to work to keep himself from bursting into those loud, messy tears that no one would understand.

Spike didn’t realize he was in motion until Buffy’s eyes met his, the worry there melting into relief first, confusion second, and then she was in his arms, pulled tight to his chest before he could stop himself. Remind himself that this might be a staking violation, but even then, he couldn’t be bothered to care. Every dead cell in his body burned with renewed life, the manic high he’d been riding since Rack had mentioned turning back the clock refusing to slow down. Her hair under his nose, her somewhat trembling body pressed against him— _this_. This was worth being staked over. He could die a happy bloke with this alone.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, and likely only that long because Buffy would be thrown off by being drawn into a hug. Just as the elation began to coast and survival instinct reared up again, the air split with a roar he knew all too bloody well.

“Get your grubby mitts off her!”

A strong pair of hands seized Spike by the shoulders, jerked him from Buffy, who—he saw in a flash, was somewhere between annoyed and bewildered—and swung him around so he was standing in the middle of a circle of stunned stupid Scoobies, a Giles who looked ready to break out the stakes, and a wide-eyed, dazed Dawn.

And right across from him, fangs out, yellow eyes blazing with an odd combination of jealousy, fear, and confusion, was himself.

Spike had seen some bloody weird things in his long life, but there was nothing weirder than this.

“Did…did Buffy make a Spike bot?” Xander stage-whispered. “And… _why_?”

“Buffy?” Willow asked, her voice at an odd pitch.

“I…”

The sound of her voice filled him with renewed warmth. Spike looked over his younger self’s shoulder and met Buffy’s eyes. And smiled.

Right before his younger self howled in fury and landed a wicked punch against his jaw, sending him staggering back until his legs wobbled and his spine met concrete. And if the following roar was anything to judge by, his doppelganger was just getting started.

_Bloody hell._


End file.
